


kamilica

by yogurtgun



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Service Top Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22213534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yogurtgun/pseuds/yogurtgun
Summary: Jaskier rubs chamomile oil on Geralt's lovely bottom.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 93
Kudos: 1886





	kamilica

**Author's Note:**

> no beta, we die like the horny people we are

The inn is loud. Despite the toughness of the night and the absence of a proper bard though they’d been expecting one, the people have crowded around the bar to drive away the winter cold. Their voices, just like the heat from the main hearth, rise to the upper level and the rooms, seep through the cracks between the floorboards, and arrive muddled to Geralt’s ear. If he focuses he can tell the words apart but focus, now, is beyond him.

A gasp leaves him, soft and barely there. Sweat rolls down his forehead to his sullied pillow. It’s too hot in the room, even though he’s naked on the bed and the closest flame is that of candles.

Geralt blinks more times than he needs, eyes locked onto the bathtub which has finally stopped steaming. He looks at it because it’s the only thing he _can_ look at. If his eyes stray south, he’ll find the shadow of Jaskier’s hand that lays on his shoulder, his knees pressing into the bed, and his blue eyes peering at him with _something_ Geralt can’t quite understand. Because the bard, even though the inn is loud, even though there’s a crowd waiting, isn’t down there serving the people, but here, sitting next to the bed on a stool, _touching_ him.

The scent of chamomile is overwhelming. It rests on his skin, where Jaskier rubbed the oil into his back before going lower. His cornflower blue eyes were stricken with an idea and they turned to Geralt, soft, amused, and uncharacteristically serious.

The smile on his face was tame when he asked, “Do you want to feel good?”

It was a general question, unburdened, and easily misinterpreted if Geralt wanted. It was considerate. It was, Geralt now thinks, a fucking trap.

He feels perspiration crowd his top lip, crown his shoulders, and roll down his spine to pool on the small of his back, as his belly tightens, not for the first time, trembling from pleasure when Jaskier’s fingers curl inside him. Geralt grits his teeth, fisting the rough sheets. His cock _aches_ , trapped between his body and the bed, and he wants to do nothing more than rut until he’s spilling.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier says, _soothes_ , as if Geralt’s a fucking animal that needs to be placated. “Feel the pleasure, just under your skin. You don’t have to fight it. Just sink into it.”

When it first started Geralt thought it was just going to be a quick prep, as it usually was when two men were involved, before Jaskier put his cock inside him. He didn’t think Jaskier had _patience_ for something like this, or will, or knowledge. But his fingers widen inside him, pushing against his walls, unhurried and certain, spreading him open. There’s no ache, no pain, nothing but the pleasant friction, and his fingertips caressing all the spots within him that have Geralt choking on air.

“You’ve had your fingers in my ass for at least twenty minutes,” he growls in response.

Jaskier’s other hand, the one that’s not pumping chamomile oil into him, rests on Geralt’s shoulder. It has been there from the moment Jaskier took his seat and told him to spread his legs. Geralt doesn’t understand why it’s comfortable having it there. When he lifts himself up on his elbow, intent on hurrying this whole thing along, he sees that its pressure is minimal.

The bard gives him a look, and the hand on his shoulder moves down his side, to his chest, where it squeezes one of his pecks.

Muscle has always been attractive to his bed-companions. He has been ridden enough times to remember fondly the feeling of fingers biting into his chest, blunt nails scratching him, and the sting of red crescent moons once the hands are gone. Now, he wonders what Jaskier would looks like on top of him, spread on his cock, hands on his chest.

Geralt curses under his breath. That isn’t on the table, not now, and probably not ever. Still, the imagine is lodged in his mind’s eye now, and good fucking luck telling his dick to be rid of it.

Jaskier’s fingers scratch over his nipple before paying it more attention, tugging and twisting as his fingers push inside him with a little more force than before. It shouldn’t do anything for him, but so electrified by pleasure already, he feels the sensation coursing right down to his belly, adding oil to the fire. His elbows threatens to give out with another twist of Jaskier’s fingers.

Finally letting himself go, Geralt rolls his hips once, twice, before he’s grinding into the sheets. His cock hurts from the friction but Geralt perseveres because any pressure now is welcome.

Jaskier’s fingers match the tempo, screwing into him each time he pulls back, until Geralt’s so high on the concoction of pain and pleasure his curses get hijacked on their way out, and become desperate groans.

Jaskier humms, sounding pleased, as his other hand wanders lower, to scratch pleasantly down Geralt’s belly, making his muscles spasm from the touch and his cock twitch, wanting. Geralt, suddenly, can’t think about anything else but fucking into Jaskier’s hand.

Unlike Geralt, Jaskier is still in his pants and shirt, sleeves rolled up to rest at his elbows. He looks comfortable, just sitting in that stool, _fingering_ him, not even willing to get on the bed.

Geralt can’t say he’s an expert in men, mostly because he doesn’t think he’s much of an expert in women either. However, he can smell Jaskier’s arousal dripping off of him, the scent sweet and peppery, a silent encouragement to fuck back onto Jaskier’s hand. It isn’t that the man doesn’t want this when clearly he does but Geralt’s sure he’s never met someone satisfied in just servicing him.

Another gasp rocks trough him when Jaskier’s fingers fuck into him in a single sharp thrust.

“Jaskier,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like the growl he wants it to be. No, it has mutated with his need into something just left of a whine. “Get on the damn bed.”

At that, Jaskier’s mouth tugs in amusement, eyes creasing. “Lay down,” he says, not unkindly.

His fingers slip out of Geralt before his other hand, somewhat reluctantly, releases his chest. For the first time since this damn thing started, Geralt can’t feel Jaskier anywhere and he finds it somewhat unsettling.

While Geralt settles down again, groaning in relief because even that much exertion used too much of his energy, Jaskier toes off his boots and climbs onto the bed. His hands find Geralt’s hips and squeeze gently, before one of his hands disappears, while the other slides over his ass, down to his thigh where the fingers caress the sensitive skin gently.

Geralt tries to breathe and keep his patience, though it’s running thin. His cock aches again, and really, he should do something: flip himself around, maybe get a hand around himself, or get Jaskier on it if he’s partial. He _should_ , but his bones are heavy, and the sound of the cork being pulled out of a vial seems promising.

For a brief moment, Geralt smells Jaskier--the scent of his arousal and sweat and perfume sweet on his tongue-- before it’s covered by a renewed scent of chamomile. Geralt is about to throw a comment before he feels Jaskier’s thumb on his rim, just _rubbing_ until Geralt pushes back, frustrated.

Jaskier’s hand squeezes his thigh before moving up to his ass-cheek, holding him open as he finally sinks his fingers back inside of him, three this time. The new stretch is new only for a moment.

The moment Jaskier’s fingers move, he clenches around them, pleasure rolling over him so strongly, he braces. The angle is all different, _better_ , Jaskier’s fingers brisk. Fuck. What has he gotten himself into? His back arches back into the touch, and Geralt starts rocking, as little as he can, back onto his fingers. His cock is rubbing against the sheets again, and now his chest aches for a hand that’s not there anymore.

“That’s beautiful,” Jaskier says when Geralt arches again, and his hand rests on the small of his back, putting pressure, to keep him that way. “Just like this, yes.”

Geralt shudders, whole body beginning to shake. He wants to reply, to snort at the compliment, but he’s tongue-tied from pleasure. If he opens his mouth now, nothing but moans will come out. His toes curl each time those three sleder fingers fuck into him, find the spot, and massage it, rubbing it as if it’s a fucking clit.

Gods, Geralt thinks, does Jaskier want him to come just like this? He can’t. He knows he can’t. It’s too slow. When Geralt fucks, he fucks hard, so he can feel it in his body, so he can tire himself out. What Jaskier’s doing to him is something completely different.

Rather than Geralt spending his energy, Jaskier seems to be sapping it from him until his muscles are trembling. He can feel the softness of the fabric against his thigh when Jaskier shifts his knees, the sureness of his hands where they hold him in place, the soft huff he feels on his back when Jaskier bends over him.

Geralt’s hearing is overtaken by his own heartbeat, which is a drumming, even, and hypnotizing noise. He closes his eyes, and sighs, and lets Jaskier do what he likes. He promised pleasure. Here Geralt is, _feeling_ pleasure.

How long Jaskier fucks him like this, Geralt doesn’t know and he isn’t sure how the bard’s wrist isn’t hurting yet. He loses track of time, floating a little in that cloud of pleasure, too small for the climb to the top, too high to be disregarded. He thinks Jaskier is saying something, but he isn’t sure, can’t hear him, his senses won’t listen. Fuck.

“Fuck,” he voices, a growl mixed with a whine. His eyes slam open as suddenly everything, all of the pleasure, all of the sensations hit him, and he’s shaking, trembling, so close now to falling apart, and he’s whining low in his throat.

“Jaskier,” he calls, because he can’t do this any longer, “Jaskier, _for fuck’s sake_.”

“If you’d like, it would be good to get your knees under you so I can at least touch your cock,” Jaskier says, soft again, crooning in that sort of way that makes all of his suggestions sound like a good idea.

Jaskier is young, and happy, and excitable. He’s energetic. He prattles on about absolutely minute shit all the time, and looks happy with himself when Geralt shuts him up. All that, except perhaps the look in his eye when Geralt growls at him, is packed away. Geralt wasn’t prepared for this, whatever the hell this is. There’s something in the cadence of his words, in the way he looks at Geralt, in the soft touch on the small of his back, in the way he propositioned Geralt in the first place, as if he’s wanted to do this before tonight, or at least thought about it. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he’s wanted him shaking on his hand from the moment he met him.

Geralt wants, for a moment, to tell him to fuck off but in the end listens to him.

Moving is draining. He’s plastered to the sheets, and his body protests. Yet, he finds himself on his knees, arching his back because Jaskier’s hand is still there, still telling him what to do.

“Fuck me already.”

His impatience is obvious, both in his voice, and in his body.

“You can come on my fingers if you’d like,” Jaskier proposes, the _bastard_.

Geralt squeezes around his fingers, groaning. “Inside me,” he demands, “now.”

“Alright,” Jaskier replies, soothing again and it grates. It does. He’s falling apart, and Jaskier appears to be just fine.

Never in his life would he have called the man _contained_ , but that’s exactly what this is-- all of his shit impulse control from what he says down to what he does-- is nowhere to be found. All of his focus, Geralt realises, is solely on him.

How strange to find opposites in a man that should have been simple to know.

Geralt watches over his shoulder as Jaskier undoes the buttons of his britches and shucks them down to his thighs, just low enough to get his cock out. The little vial of oil is nearly out, and what little remains Jaskier uses on his cock to slick himself up. He fucks into his hand a couple of times, fine tremors rolling down his belly. A soft groan leaves his throat, but Jaskier is quick to regain his composure. He wipes his hand on the sheets before grabbing Geralt’s hips. His cock rubs over his hole, warm and heavy, before he finally lines up and pushes in.

Geralt relaxes into the feeling because its finally familiar ground. Jaskier is young and he will finally rail into him, desperate to chase his own pleasure. He hasn’t had sex like this in a long time, and Geralt braces for the brutality of it all.

Geralt can sense Jaskier, smell him, almost taste his sweat on his tongue. His heart is beating too quickly, the excitement evident in the way his fingers dance on their hold on his hips, and his cock twitches within him, especially once it’s all inside him. Geralt groans when Jaskier’s hips meet his ass. The curve of his cock is perfect, pressing in all the right places.

Geralt braces when Jaskier pulls out and rolls his hips. Then again, and again, measured, slow rolls that anyone would appreciate. Jaskier is being fucking _considerate_.

Surely, Geralt thinks, this is just an act. Just for a moment. Surely.

But no, it isn’t. Jaskier doesn’t speed up as much as his thrusts turn deeper, but they’re still measured. Still following a tempo. Still so fucking good there’s heat gliding down Geralt’s spine, pleasure so good he thinks that it won’t be just enough to come once, and even if he does, he might not stop, might not be able to stop.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, voice finally filled with something except that hypnotizing slowness of reassurance.

He leans over Geralt, lips finding his shoulder. His hand glides over his chest again, down to his belly, muscles underneath his nails twitching, before it wraps around Geralt’s cock.

He groans between desperate breaths, thinks he just might fucking cry.

Just like his fucking, Jaskier’s hand gives him just the right kind of pressure. Geralt is so warmed up, so high on pleasure, he thinks this is it, this is as good as it gets, and it’s a delicious sort of feeling that keeps climbing as his body begins to tense.

Then, the angle shifts and an unbidden moan shakes loose from his lungs. Jaskier has decided to find that spot inside him, and his thrusts become harder. The tempo of his hips rutting against Geralt’s ass doesn’t falter. This polite, considerate fucking, Geralt realises with a begrudging sort of surprise, is going to make him come.

Still, despite knowing it will happen, Geralt isn’t prepared. He breathes hard, sensing it just before it washes over him, whole body going rigid as he moans into the pillow. He comes all over Jaskier’s hand and the bed, the scent obvious even though he’s got his head buried into the pillow. He claws at the sheets, even his breathing loud now, whining until he’s all done.

Geralt shivers each time Jaskier rams into him, fucking him through his orgasm. The air is filled with the scent of sex and the sound of skin slapping against skin, and Jaskier’s hard breathing. Just like the polite fuck that he is, Jaskier, when he starts twitching inside him, pulls out, and fucks between his cheeks until he’s spilling over his lower back.

They pant together, Jaskier’s hold on his hips stiff. Then, when any other man might have collapsed to linger in the afterglow, Jaskier stands from the bed. Geralt cracks an eye open, completely dumbfounded, and finds that he’s looking at Jaskier’s back.

His composure, now, isn’t so obvious. Jaskier’s hair clings to the back of his neck from the sweat, and his cheeks are red, blue eyes blown black still, when they turn on him. But his shirt is still on, and he looks, if nothing else, more comfortable in his skin.

His feet are bare, at least. Geralt wonders now, what really is underneath those clothes. He wants to unwrap him, peel it all off of him, taste his sweat on his tongue until it’s known. Geralt realises that perhaps he doesn’t know Jaskier as well as he thought he did.

Jaskier goes to the bathing area, wipes himself down, tucks himself in, and returns with a clean washcloth. He must know he’s being watched, he has to, he’s always aware of it, but he doesn’t look at Geralt as he kneel above him, passing the washcloth over his back to wash away the evidence. Not like Geralt’s not completely covered in sweat and chamomile oil, and still feels the shape of his cock inside him, and thinks that he’s found another thing he might want to do on the regular.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunts and finally, Jaskier’s usual persona break through, if a little bit, and he laughs. Geralt joins in, amused.

Jaskier doesn’t lay next to him on the bed. Instead, he shuffles closer and touches Geralt’s shoulder in the same place he’d been holding before, making Geralt shiver and his hole clench, as if his body has decided that that is a reaction it will be having upon any further touch on that place by the man.

“You should rest,” Jaskier says, brushing Geralt’s hair out of his face but not in a tentative way. No, he isn’t afraid to touch him. There’s something freeing in that thought. He brushes his hair away, rubs his cheekbone with his clean fingers that smell of mint and soap, and Geralt’s pretty sure that he’s going to think of this every time he smells chamomile oil.

Jaskier’s blue eyes shine, soft, knowing, the smile on his face indulgent and a little smug.

“Where the fuck did you learn that?”

Jaskier chuckles. “You know I’ve had plenty of lovers. And I don’t always kiss and tell.”

Geralt’s pretty sure that he can’t feel his legs. Still, Jaskier isn’t too far away. Jaskier bends and Geralt rises, and somewhere in the middle their lips meet. It’s quick and soft, but Geralt feels an arrow land right in his throat.  
  
“Oh,” he murmurs between their lips, and leans in to kiss him again.

Jaskier groans, his hand joining Geralt’s where it rests on Jaskier’s cheek. Geralt pushes himself up further, twists on his side, and Jaskier pushes him down, until he finds himself on his back. Arousal battles with fatigue, the novelty of it all giving it an edge.

But Jaskier pulls away, eyes wide, surprised, looking at him in a way Geralt has yet to understand. Nobody has quite looked at him like Jaskier looks at him. Geralt tastes something in the air, senses a charge, and he doesn’t know what it is either.

Jaskier's voice is hoarse when he says, “Rest, you were injured. I’m going down to get us some coin.”

He moves away, and the intimacy leaves with him. Geralt regrets that it's gone.

He watches the man slide into his jacket and grab his lute, as if he’s energized by what they just did and not desperately tired like Geralt.

Ah fuck, he thinks when Jaskier slips out of the room. He’s completely screwed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to hang out with me and a couple of other cool people on Discord, click [here](https://discord.gg/vHmmG5M)


End file.
